Page 713 - vanity-fair

words, he proceeds to business. The hounds are drawn up
to the hall-door, and little Rawdon descends amongst them,
excited yet half-alarmed by the caresses which they bestow
upon him, at the thumps he receives from their waving tails,
and at their canine bickerings, scarcely restrained by Tom
Moody’s tongue and lash.
Meanwhile, Sir Huddlestone has hoisted himself un-
wieldily on the Nob: ‘Let’s try Sowster’s Spinney, Tom,’ says
the Baronet, ‘Farmer Mangle tells me there are two fox-
es in it.’ Tom blows his horn and trots off, followed by the
pack, by the whips, by the young gents from Winchester,
by the farmers of the neighbourhood, by the labourers of
the parish on foot, with whom the day is a great holiday,
Sir Huddlestone bringing up the rear with Colonel Crawley,
and the whole cortege disappears down the avenue.
The Reverend Bute Crawley (who has been too modest
to appear at the public meet before his nephew’s windows),
whom Tom Moody remembers forty years back a slender di-
vine riding the wildest horses, jumping the widest brooks,
and larking over the newest gates in the country— his Rev-
erence, we say, happens to trot out from the Rectory Lane on
his powerful black horse just as Sir Huddlestone passes; he
joins the worthy Baronet. Hounds and horsemen disappear,
and little Rawdon remains on the doorsteps, wondering and
happy.
During the progress of this memorable holiday, little
Rawdon, if he had got no special liking for his uncle, always
awful and cold and locked up in his study, plunged in jus-
tice-business and surrounded by bailiffs and farmers—has

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